


Trust Your Legs

by alicekittridge



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-11-25 20:11:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18170906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: If it was paint then his body was my canvas.





	1. The Shock of It All

**Author's Note:**

> Written because of an incessant need for seeing a tenderer side of Villanelle, from Eve's perspective. If it seems a bit OOC, I do apologize; I haven't lived in Villanelle's shoes in a while and so it's possible I may be losing my touch with her dialogue and presentations, but I hope you enjoy this nonetheless.

**THE EVENING**

She didn’t remember how she’d gotten into the bath, or even out of her clothes, only that she was suddenly in the hot water and there was a small layer of luxurious, lavender-scented bubbles acting as a thin white blanket covering her from collarbones to ankles. The tops of her feet were visible at the other end of the tub. And her left arm hung over the side, her red-striped hand nearly brushing the grey-white marble tile. Eve stared at the red. It was dry and crusty, feeling almost like paint.

            _It’s not paint._

_If it was paint then his body was my canvas._

She felt like she was coming to after an episode of sleep paralysis. There was the panic, the slow moment of realization, the shock, and finally, the piecing together as the real world suddenly came rushing back in. Yet she was still frozen, unable to move. She’d told Villanelle she wouldn’t be long. _How long have I been here?_ She’d only be a minute.

            Soft footsteps sounded, accompanied by the brush of fabric moving against skin. Villanelle knelt beside the tub, her presence solid, strangely warm.

            Eve said, “I killed him.”

            “You did,” Villanelle agreed. Her voice was low.

            _With a knife. Villanelle’s knife._

“I killed him.”

            Villanelle was silent. Eve at last afforded her a glance, taking in her fresh clothes—white shirt, designer jeans—her tied up, sweat-greased hair, the streak of red on her cheek. The surprisingly tender, concerned look on her face. Villanelle said, “Don’t think about it,” and reached for Eve’s hand. She dipped it in the water, snatched a white washcloth from the rack on the floor, wetted it, and began to wipe the blood from Eve’s fingers, her palm, the back of her hand. She did it gently, as precisely as if she were cleaning a gun. Wiping away evidence. Eve wished the memory could be wiped away as easily. _The give of cloth and flesh as she sunk the knife into his stomach. Not once. Not twice. Three times. And a fourth between his ribs._

            “Your hair has some too,” Villanelle murmured.

            Eve nodded. She allowed herself to be dunked underneath the water, thinking Villanelle could easily hold her under and drown her, had probably murdered someone like that, but unlike that poor victim she was tugged back up. Villanelle wouldn’t massage shampoo into their hair either. She closed her eyes, controlled her breathing while Villanelle used a cup to rinse the shampoo. Tried not to think of supporting the man’s leaking body on her shoulder while she let him fall to the concrete floor.

            “This is a strange way of pampering,” Eve said.

            “I think you’ve earned it.”

            Eve scoffed. Earning a pampering after murder? Only in Villanelle’s world. “Is this what you do?” Eve ventured. “After your jobs, I mean.”

            “Mm-hmm,” Villanelle hummed. She picked the washcloth up again and continued its brush across Eve’s fingertips. She wondered if the maid would question the red or would think it was just an everyday occurrence. “It helps ground thoughts, if they’re running away.”

            Eve was still seeing red behind her eyes. But it felt a little duller now, the body that’d leaned against her, the silver slipping into his stomach and then between his ribs. It wouldn’t wholly wash away the guilt, but it might keep it at bay. Numb it a little, not quite as well as alcohol—and goddamn did she want a drink, or seven, repeating a ritual that’d appeared not long after she’d stabbed Villanelle—but well enough to wrestle with.

            Villanelle returned her hand to the bathwater. “You did good, you know,” she said. “Knew just where to stab him.”

            Eve admitted, stumbling, “I-I wasn’t really thinking. I just…did it.” _To save your life_ was the part that hung in the air. She knew they both knew that. Villanelle seemed calm, when she opened her eyes, but there was something flickering underneath. Gratefulness? Admiration? Something close to those, Eve thought, since the look wasn’t exactly sad.

            Eventually Villanelle asked, “Want a drink?”

            “I’m getting out,” Eve said instead, but found her legs wouldn’t obey her commands. Someone had cemented her feet to the other side of the tub. Sensing her state, Villanelle plucked the drain, knelt, threw Eve’s arm over her shoulder—the one belonging to her now-clean-of-blood hand—and scooped her smoothly from the water. Carried her, bridal style, to the bedroom. As easily as if she were carrying a suitcase, or some bag filled with weapons; it took very little effort. It was a reminder of how strong she really was.

            “I’ll take that drink now,” Eve said. She was settled on the bed, soaking the sheets and pillowcases with soapy water.

            “Okay.” Villanelle cleaned herself up in the bathroom, and then she left the hotel room, her pace hurried and serious. Was this, Eve thought now, the kind of lover Villanelle was? Doting when she wanted to be, actually _concerned_ when the other person was feeling things she only understood in theory? A deadly but doting international assassin. You’ve certainly done it this time, Eve.

            But there was excitement that came with her. Steamy sex whose orgasms were multiple and satiating. Travelling to places Eve’s only ever dreamed of. Such freedom in those places, of being able to do whatever she liked, for however long or short she wanted because there were no time constraints. Unless, like today, she was speeding off to god-knew-where to find Villanelle in a deadly waltz—

            Villanelle returned holding a glass. A gin and tonic.

            “You do pay attention,” Eve said, accepting it, taking a too-big sip. “Thank you.”

            There was nothing else, for a while. Eve sipped her drink in bed, letting the gin do its work. Villanelle stood by the window, peering outside. If she smoked she would be doing it now.

            What would it feel like to be like you? Eve wondered. To not be in shock after killing someone. To not feel guilt even if it was in defense of another person’s life. She didn’t ask. She set her near-empty glass on the nightstand and reached for Villanelle’s wrist. Villanelle turned to face her, alert. She walked the two steps willingly.

            Eve leaned up and kissed her.

            “You’re still dressed,” she murmured against Villanelle’s mouth. She smelled like sweat and perfume and old warehouse, like-near death. So different than Niko. So different that it caused arousal to spike through Eve’s body.

            Villanelle pulled away to undress. It was always a marvel to watch. It might never stop feeling that way.

            “Why did you do this?” Eve asked, meaning everything that’d happened in the bathroom.

            “You think I don’t know shock when I see it?” Villanelle said, tugging her shirt over her head. There were bruises on her ribs, another on her shoulder. Places that were, thankfully, easily hidden. “You’ll get over it.” The shock. The killing. But she didn’t think she was the kind of person that _got over_ things. Move on from them, certainly, but in a way that they were only distant and came near in thoughts. Or dreams. Or even guilt.

            Eve had yet to tell Villanelle she dreamed of the stabbing often, and that for minutes after waking she swore her hands were still slick and sticky with red.

            But here, she only nodded her agreement. _This is how I get over it._


	2. I'm Here With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my group chat for their encouragement, and thank you to my readers for all your lovely comments, and for sticking with this random thing. I adore you all xx

**THE MORNING OF**

The bed smelled like laundry detergent, floral shampoo, and stale sweat. Eve buried her face further into the pillow, blocking out the golden light for a little while longer, morning sounds coming to her ears like approaching surf on a seashore: Motorists on the busy street some several yards away from the hotel, room service carts and maids and vacuum cleaners down the hallway and the floors above, a headboard next door knocking softly against the wall in time to a man’s groans. Payback for last night, Eve thought, inhaling the lingering scent of Villanelle’s shampoo. They’d had sex for hours, passionately, loudly, until at some point in the night they’d fallen into an exhausted sleep.

            “Our poor neighbors,” Eve had said.

            Villanelle had hummed, already half-asleep herself. “They’ll just be jealous.” Traces of France disappeared when she was tired and Russia slipped through. “You have wonderful stamina.”

            When at last she stretched, Eve felt the results of that passion in her sore muscles, the scratches between her shoulder blades. Only looking into a mirror would tell if there were bruises or not. She opened her eyes to the room. Despite the night before and the few articles of clothing dangling from the desk chair or lounging on the grey carpet, the room was put together, the curtains thrown open on the large windows to let in the light and the view of a tall building just across the way. It was quiet, Eve thought, sitting up, now looking about the place for signs of Villanelle. There were the clothes Eve had helped her out of by the dresser—striped collared shirt, black slacks, silky underwear—and a bathrobe dangling on the bathroom’s door handle. No shower was on, nor were there splashes coming from the tub.

            The man next door gave a telling sigh, and the headboard’s creaking became slower until it ceased.

            Villanelle was out, then. For work or for pleasure, Eve didn’t know, and wouldn’t until her return. With effort she swung her legs over the side of the bed, escaping the sheets that probably needed laundered, making her way to the luxurious bathroom. Her hair was wild, both from Villanelle’s hands and dreams, and when she turned her back to the mirror the scratches between her shoulder blades were red. They were made by Villanelle’s desperate nails. Eve’s face grew hot at the memory of her urging—“Come on, Eve… _Eve_ , go faster…”—and Villanelle’s trembling legs.

            She showered quickly, dressed in jeans and a comfortable but stylish shirt Villanelle had insisted she pack after having bought it for her back in London. She stole fruit from the kitchenette and went onto the balcony of the hotel room, leaning over the railing, greeting the sunshine and Florence’s pleasantly humid air.

            Eve was still in a state of disbelief. Only a week and a half ago she’d driven to Brighton, met Villanelle at her hotel, had dinner with her, and sex, and ultimately decided yes, she’d come away with Villanelle. What more could her life offer her, anyway, but the greyness of waiting? (Waiting for Villanelle, waiting for the job to get better and more exciting, waiting for a scrap of news and an opportunity to take down an organization that most likely would’ve never come.) Perhaps this was the way to do it. Have a little fun first before the chaos started, before the risk went up. And it was fun. It was like seeing the world through new eyes, with Villanelle describing it and bringing it in, letting Eve determine the destinations if she so wanted.

            “I should buy you a camera,” Villanelle had said yesterday. They were downtown, sitting at an outdoor café, licking gelato cones. “You can take little pictures for your spreadsheet.” (The spreadsheet, of course, being the map Eve kept of Villanelle’s kills while on the job, among other things.)

            “You’re not buying me anything else,” Eve said, though the look on Villanelle’s face ultimately determined otherwise. Villanelle had finished her gelato cone, plucked up her purse, said, “Wait here,” and rounded the corner out of sight. She was gone for forty minutes and returned brandishing a bag labelled _Nikon._

            “Open it,” Villanelle said.

            It was, indeed, a camera. Not a point-and-shoot either. A Nikon Z7, according to the label. A mirrorless camera. “How much did you pay for this?” Eve asked, gaping at the thing nestled in its box.

            “Almost four thousand dollars.” It’d come out easily, like buying the expensive fancy thing was spending chump change.

            “Take it back,” Eve said, holding it out to Villanelle.

            “You haven’t even tried it.”

            “Jesus, just _take it._ ”

            “It isn’t a dress, Eve,” Villanelle said. “You can’t just hang it on the rack for someone else to take without trying it on.” She did, however, take the camera from Eve’s hands to remove it from its box, put the battery in, and turn it on. Eve admitted she had a point, and took the damn thing reluctantly. The pictures she took were generic touristy ones, far cries from professional, but the quality—the clearness—of them couldn’t be missed. It captured almost what her eyes saw. A silly point-and-shoot wouldn’t.

            The camera was in the safe. She stood on the balcony for a few more minutes before she decided that going out with it wasn’t an entirely terrible idea. By the looks of it, Villanelle wouldn’t be back right away either, and how could one be a tourist if they whiled away the hours in a hotel room?

            But first, a better breakfast than an apple.

            There was a café just around the corner from the hotel, one that Villanelle had good reviews of, and so, after throwing on a light jacket and fetching the Nikon from the safe—whose password was Eve’s birthday, the knowing bastard—she headed in that direction. She felt light, walking in a sort of wonderland, filled with curiosity, an eagerness to try new things. She sat outside at the café, ordered a coffee and a traditional Italian breakfast. While she waited for it she fiddled with the Nikon’s settings, tried to capture the tables and the walkways and the buildings from her vantage point but ended up disappointed in every shot. Eve set the thing aside, stirred more sugar into her coffee. Villanelle had no passion for photography either. Eve imagined her pictures would be careless and blurry, the subjects always out of focus whether they were people or buildings or statues. And taking pictures of her murders was out of the question, unless it was required.

            _Required_ , Eve thought. An interesting word. There were always requirements on jobs, but what of one like Villanelle’s? What did her superiors tell her? “Make sure it’s quick,” or “Make it look natural?” Someday she’d get the answers she wanted, but Villanelle was selective about revealing those kinds of things, or personal matters. It was one thing to read about them in her prison file or in records of her murders or even hearing them from someone from her past; Villanelle saying them would be something entirely different.

            After breakfast Eve wandered aimlessly, directionless, mingling with groups of tourists here and there, until she felt enough time had passed and she made her way back to the hotel. Upon entering—with the Nikon around her neck, no less—she glimpsed Villanelle in the bathroom, wearing the bathrobe that’d been hung on the doorknob, combing out her wet hair.

            “I thought you hated it,” Villanelle said.

            Eve let the hotel door shut loudly behind her. She put the damn camera back in the safe. “Thought I’d try it on.”

            “And does it fit?”

            Yes, Eve thought, like everything you buy me. She said, “It’s ridiculous.”

            “But you don’t hate it.”

            “You’re relentless.”

            “Nothing bad ever came out of making observations,” Villanelle said, and the amusement in her voice made Eve pause on her way to the bed, look at Villanelle full on. What had she done to warrant another shower? The weather was warm, even humid, but not so much that you sweated until you stank.

            “Did you run?” Eve asked.

            Villanelle turned back to her reflection, fixed her part with the comb. “Something like that.”

            “You have work,” Eve said. Villanelle didn’t deny it.

            “Does that bother you?” Villanelle asked. “What bothers me is the amount of walks this one takes. He’s _never_ still.”

            “Don’t tell me you’re struggling to keep up.” Eve felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Villanelle’s line of work wasn’t particularly bothering, and perhaps it never was, if the first word out of Eve’s mouth about the assassination of Viktor Kedrin was an amazed “Cool.”

            “I never do,” Villanelle said. She set the comb aside and came to stand in front of Eve. She was only a little shorter when she was barefoot. Eve leaned up to accept a kiss, reached for the tie of the robe while Villanelle’s hands framed her face. A kiss hello, or good morning, or a kiss for kissing’s sake.

            “You taste like butter,” Villanelle murmured.

            “Sorry, it was… breakfast.” The tie slipped easily; it was only knotted once. It parted and revealed bare skin, and Eve moved forward to press her lips to it. She smelled like the hotel’s lavender soap, something softer than the sharp perfumes she usually wore, and it somehow suited her too. Eve asked against her sternum, “Have anything better to do?”

            “No,” Villanelle replied. “Are you going to be a teasing arsehole?”

            Eve opened the robe more, bit one of Villanelle’s nipples, hard, in reply.

            “Eve…” A soft groan escaped. “Stop teasing.”

            If she was more serious, she would do something about it, like shove Eve’s head between her thighs after burying her fingers in the hair at the base of Eve’s neck. Eve stayed where she was until Villanelle’s breathing was unsteady. Then she dragged her lips wetly south as she sank to her knees.

            “Stay like that,” Eve said, and went in gently. Hands tightened in her hair and Villanelle inhaled sharply, pressed her hips into Eve’s mouth.

            “Don’t be gentle.”

            Eve softened her ministrations.

            Villanelle threw her head back anyway.

 

            Clouds had gathered in the hour or so they’d been back in bed. They were hiking up to one of the city’s best viewpoints, a little bridge along the water where they could see the buildings in the distance. It was, according to Villanelle, a little isolated spot she’d found on one trip here a while ago, and as she munched on a bag of candy Eve asked, “How long ago is a while?”

            Villanelle shrugged, took a swig of water from her shell pink bottle. “A few years.”

            Eve hummed. She stepped closer to Villanelle to avoid a cyclist. “Before you were on the radar.”

            “How long were you stalking me?” Villanelle asked.

            “That’s a bit extreme,” Eve said around a laugh, but continued, “Almost half a year. Could probably guess who it was if I had the files with me.”

            “It was some forget-me politician.”

            “An assassination nonetheless.”

            “He’s not missed. The shit ones never are.”

            “Is this one a shit one?” Eve asked.

            “You’ll read all about it in the papers,” Villanelle replied. She pointed to a turn. “It’s up here.”

            The bridge was rather high up, and the water below was green-black. The stone was old, rained and snowed on, maybe with worse things than natural water. She sat nonetheless, facing east, where the view was best. Tiny cars buzzed by, stylish couples strolled on the sidewalks. After a while, Eve said, “There isn’t a job, is there?”

            “There is,” said Villanelle.

            “What, then?”

            “You know what they taught me, when I first started?” Eve shook her head, too surprised by the question to answer with speech. “I had to put a lot of trust in myself, to be confident that I could do it. And to trust my legs, because they’d get me to where I needed to go, or away from the people who were pursuing me.”

            Eve turned it over. “That’s… rather sound advice,” she admitted.

            “I thought it was silly at the time.” Villanelle propped her elbow on her knee and her chin in her palm. “Sometimes the bastards aren’t wrong. It’s irritating.” She held her other hand out for a piece of candy; Eve put two pieces into it, feeling giddy. “I offer you the same advice.” She popped the candy into her mouth, chewed it thoughtfully, her gaze not on Eve but at the buildings in the distance. Then she said, “I would be a terrible trainer.”

            Eve scoffed. “Yes you would.” The conversation stopped there. Villanelle leaned back on her palms, stretched her legs out in front of her. She’d shared a shard of her life. Eve felt… grateful. And she felt that, slowly, trust was being built. If it was even there to begin with.

            Villanelle sighed, stretched her arms above her head.

            Eve asked, “Do you want to go get another gelato?”

            “I’d love to,” Villanelle said, “but this needs taken care of.” She scratched her collarbone over her shirt, fixed the garment a little. “I think you bruised me.”

            Eve had bitten her nipple harder after the first one. Villanelle hadn’t complained at all; only made a pleasured sound that bordered on a whimper.

            Villanelle got up from her spot. She stood there for a moment, looking undecided. “I’ll see you?” she said.

            Eve replied, “Yeah.”

            There was no kiss goodbye. Villanelle only gave a slight nod, and headed north, her stride wide and confident, until she rounded the corner out of sight.

            Eve turned to the water. She mulled over the advice Villanelle had given, what it could mean besides its literal meaning. It was work after all, but not an assignment. Or maybe it was and it would be off the record, something unofficial. Or…

            _…away from the people who were pursuing me._

The bridge was isolated enough that they could talk privately but out in the open enough that there was a view of various points where they could see someone suspicious.

            _She’d chosen it for a reason._

“Shit,” Eve said. “Shit.” She abandoned her candy and rushed in the direction Villanelle had disappeared but she was, as predicted, long gone. She cursed again. How could she have not known that someone would eventually follow them? How had she not _noticed?_ She’d been so caught up in the novelty of their eloping that knowledge of danger had completely escaped her. Eve stood uselessly at the corner, gaining looks from locals; she debated going back to the hotel and simply waiting for Villanelle to return or lingering around here. Villanelle couldn’t’ve gone too far, if the destination could be reached on foot. But there was the possibility she’d taken a car.

            “Shit.” There wasn’t much of a choice. _The hotel’s too far._ She spotted a café and went to it, trying to look calm. _Might as well order a fucking coffee._ Her Italian was rusty; it was Villanelle who did most of the speaking. She took the mug with her to a window seat and wondered if moments of bliss would always be followed by the possibility of death. There’d been Paris, the confessions, the bed, the so-close-to-kissing before Eve had stabbed Villanelle (and would it have been more, had she not chosen to take that action?); now there was this. But even if Eve hadn’t opened Villanelle’s robe, seduced her with a bite to her nipple, this would’ve come anyway. Wouldn’t it? Just at a later time. In the evening, tomorrow, the day after…

            Her phone rang.

            “Villanelle?” Eve said, before it’d even rung three times. Almost forty minutes had passed since Villanelle’s departure. There was heavy breathing.

            _“Are you seriously at a café?”_ was the response.

            “I—Yes. Where are you?”

            _“Somewhere you need to come.”_ She gave the street name, and then hung up the phone.

            Eve left a tip with the barely-touched cup and left in a flurry of clothes, more looks chasing her but blatantly ignored. There was a large black car letting out a well-dressed couple down the street. The driver could probably be bribed. There wasn’t much cash in her wallet but she figured it would do.

            “You an Uber?” she asked when she reached the driver’s door.

            _“Si,”_ replied the driver, taken aback by her abruptness.

            She climbed in the backseat, told him the address and to step on it.

            The building was old, and abandoned; everything about it spoke of its lack of use. It was, however, massive, with two stories. Eve handed over the cash and stumbled from the car and into the building. It was a warehouse. Inside were piles of wooden crates, their labels all in Italian, printed in bold black lettering. They were dusty, covered in spider webs and rot. And from somewhere within were the sounds of fighting. Eve followed the grunts, the sound of blows landing and shoes sliding against dusty concrete.

            And there, beyond a wide doorway that opened into a huge room, was Villanelle and a much larger man in the middle of a struggle. They were both winded and sweaty; the man had blood streaming from his nose and his left eye was black and swollen shut. Villanelle’s back was to her and so Eve couldn’t see the damage. She stood there, statue-still, her jaw slowly dropping.

            Villanelle glanced in her direction briefly. She kicked at the man’s shin. He grunted.

            “Are you just… going to stand there stupidly?” Villanelle said, kicking again. “Help me!”

            She couldn’t move.

            Villanelle backed the man into the wall, punched him in the throat. He sank a little. Eve glimpsed the shiny handle of a knife in Villanelle’s belt.

            “Eve, you… _idiot_ …”

            Eve stopped thinking. Her legs carried her forward. She pulled the knife from Villanelle’s belt, opened it, and slid the blade into the attacker’s stomach.


End file.
